


A Dog is a Mech's Best Friend

by Trinary



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Gen, Minor Injuries, Mistaken Identity, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 20:55:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17836046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinary/pseuds/Trinary
Summary: When Ultra Magnus takes a missile to the face, Thundercracker discovers a tiny, injured turbofox in the wreckage and rescues it. What cruel monster would do this? Who would leave a poor, defenseless puppy on the battlefield?Who???Meanwhile, Minimus Ambus accidentally becomes the best-placed inside agent the Autobots have had in vorns.





	A Dog is a Mech's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Here's something I've had three-quarters finished since (checks watch) _last September, yikes_.
> 
> Don't think too hard about the timeline. It doesn't make any sense.

Ultra Magnus takes a missile to the face.

It’s a lucky shot from Onslaught. The explosion’s huge, and kicks up enough smoke and dust to obscure that whole corner of the battlefield. Thundercracker, closest to the crater, swoops down to check if Ultra Magnus is fatally offline—and, if not, to offer a helpful bullet through the spark casing.

He underestimates the thickness of the smoke. The moment he plunges into it, dense clouds black out his visuals. His intakes fill with particulates. He has the choice to clamp them shut or choke. His secondary flight systems protest and he starts overheating almost immediately, but it’s a small price to pay for not scrubbing the mess out of his insides later.

Thundercracker glides low to the ground, engines unpowered. His biolights cast a reddish glow through the murk. They only make the visibility worse. The crater the missile left is obvious. Thundercracker circles its shallow, scorched lip, and the debris inside it. Twisted scraps of blue plating litter the ground. Bits glint like caltrops. A tangle of metal blazes off to his right, and it might or might not be what’s left of Ultra Magnus. Skywarp won’t be happy. He had a running bet that Megatron would be the one to finally put him down.

A green-and-white _something_ lies limp on the crater’s edge.

Thundercracker circles closer. The lump's much too small to be Ultra Magnus—it’s too small to be a minibot, even. It could be a cassette, but neither Soundwave nor Blaster are anywhere near this sector. Either way, none of their cassettes are green. Not unless Rumble or Frenzy got tired of swapping blue and red back and forth and went for the constructicons’ spare colors. Thundercracker pings a quick request to Skywarp, and Skywarp sends back a snapshot of the battlefield. The rest of the Autobots are nowhere near his position. Whatever that huddled shape is, it isn’t one of theirs.

Thundercracker transforms as he lands. His twitchy targeting system wants him to shoot the thing, but he cancels and creeps in cautiously. When the lump doesn’t move he nudges it with his foot.

It’s a tiny turbofox.

He’s never seen one up close. This one’s obviously the descendent of some towers breeding project—the color, for one, and the lack of barbs or hooked pedipalps for another. It’s a sleek thing with a square muzzle, perky ears and a stumpy little tail. It was probably some noble’s pampered pet back before the Decepticons burned the towers down; now it’s grubbing in the soot with the rest of them, hunting petrorabbits for fuel and keeping a step ahead of larger predators. At least until it stumbled onto a battlefield and found the largest predators of all.

Thundercracker nudges the turbofox again. It flops onto its side. It’s alive but stunned, or in stasis. Its sides heave in rapid ventilations. Its hind leg is badly broken, the plating split, the struts exposed. Thundercracker grimaces. He feels a little sorry for the thing. A turbofox might be quick, but nothing outspeeds the war. A broken-legged turbofox is a dead turbofox. If it can’t run, it’s a long, slow path to starvation.

Thundercracker raises his gun. “Sorry, little guy. It’s for the best.”

A bullet pings off Thundercracker’s armor. He throws himself flat. Projectiles whine overhead and Skywarp transmits belated positioning data: _Autobots_ , closing in on his position. His time’s up. They might not know exactly where he is, but it won’t be long until they do. They’re coming after Ultra Magnus. Thundercracker twists. He fires blind into the smoke. A grenade comes bouncing out of it and lands at his feet.

Thundercracker swears, scoops the turbofox into his cockpit, transforms, and blasts into the stratosphere with the explosion licking at his thrusters. The blast wave carries him up. Air shrieks over his wings. Gunfire rattles below and a bullet pierces his undercarriage. The damage is superficial, glancing, and nothing to worry about. By the time the smoke clears enough for the Autobots to get a real bead on him, he’s well out of range.

Thundercracker breaks the cloud layer. He twists in midair to rejoin his trine, black wisps trailing from his wingtips. When he opens his vents the cold air rushes through him like icy coolant. Not even the vague irritation of being shot dispels his relief.

“Well?” Starscream asks.

“No Ultra Magnus,” Thundercracker says. “Just scraps. The smoke was too thick to tell if he was dead or not.”

Skywarp whoops. “I’m still in the running for the death pool prize!”

“Why would you bother with that? None of these idiots ever dies when you want them to,” Starscream sniffs.

“Because I’m gonna get _so much shanix_ when I win!”

“Which you’ll spend on what, engex and black-market video feeds? You know Swindle will get it all in the end.”

“Uh, yeah, Screamer. That’s how money works.” Skywarp pops out of existence. From far below comes screaming and the sizzle of energy weapons fire. When he reappears he does it directly above Thundercracker, his undercarriage splattered in scorch marks and other people’s energon. “TC, what’s that thing in your cockpit?”

“Nothing,” Thundercracker answers, too quickly. Starscream swoops in for his own look. Skywarp has to get out of the way or be rammed. Skywarp peels off, insulting Starscream’s flying, provenance, and paint job the whole time. Autobots or not, Thundercracker wants to dive back under the cloud layer. “It’s a turbofox,” he mumbles.

Starscream squawks. “Why do you have a—no, you know what? I'm not even going to ask. Put that thing back where you found it. I won’t have it running around the Nemesis.”

“It’s hurt! And anyway it’s not wild, just look at it! It’s obviously a pet.”

“A pet kept by the kind of rich, bored moron too self-important to wonder what happens when the pet gets hungry and decides its owner looks delicious. They’re _predators_ , Thundercracker. I expect these things from Skywarp, not you.”

Skywarp bellies in for another optic-full. This time Starscream’s forced out of the way. He and Thundercracker both wobble in Skywarp's bowshock. Starscream rises, cursing. Skywarp barrel rolls and flies upside down, the telemetry cased in his cockpit as close to Thundercracker as it can be.

He coos. “Aww, that little face, though! I’d let him chomp me anytime. He’s _adorable_. Can we keep him, Screamer?”

“Do you know anything about turbofoxes? They’re not even sentient! All the breeding programs did was make them pretty.” Starscream knocks his wing against Skywarp’s and sends him spinning. “And I told you not to call me Screamer!”

“But _please?_ ”

Starscream makes the exasperated noise anyone makes when they deal with Skywarp for long enough. “Do you want to wake up with that thing chewing its way through your cables?”

“Can’t be worse than your snoring.”

Starscream fires a warning shot across Skywarp’s nosecone. Skywarp ducks it. He waggles his ailerons gleefully. Thundercracker’s just debating whether to turn down his audials to avoid the yelling to come when an explosion echoes from below. A great fireball rises.

Megatron’s voice comes through all comms. “Decepticons, to me!”

The war takes over.

In the battlefield's chaos the turbofox is quickly forgotten. By the time Megatron declares victory, Thundercracker barely remembers it. The turbofox hasn’t moved this whole time. Maybe it's dead. He’s reluctant to shoot the thing or dump it back where he found it, no matter what Starscream says—but Starscream seems to have forgotten it, too.

Thundercracker doesn’t remind him.

 

They make off with all the energon they can carry and return to the _Nemesis_ triumphant. Even Megatron’s in a jovial mood. He gives the order for rations of highgrade all around and doesn’t hit Starscream even once. Soundwave’s cassettes chase one another around the docking bay in anticipation of the party to come. Soundwave looks on in fond exasperation, or maybe total impassivity. It’s hard to tell with him. Laserbeak reports spotting the Autobots dragging Ultra Magnus’ charred carcass off the field—ungreyed, unfortunately, but until the Autobots piece him back together he’s not their problem. It’ll be cycles before he’s up and fighting. That’s worth celebrating on its own.

Thundercracker pauses as he walks by the medbay. Hook’s visible through the open door. He’s in the middle of welding Thrust’s arm back on, and Thundercracker lingers as he finishes up. While Thrust tests his range of motion Thundercracker pops his cockpit and takes out the turbofox.

The turbofox is even smaller than he remembers. It’s skinny enough to close his hands around its torso. Its claws are small and blunt, its hackles smoothed to a compact rise. It’s _definitely_ not wild. This is a turbofox made civilized, its edges rounded out. It’s not a thing meant to survive the wastes between Cybertron’s cities, but something bred to sit on a cushion, look pretty, and eat treats from its master’s hand. That it survived the towers’ fall is a testament to the power of instinct—or maybe Starscream’s right and it’ll try to tear out his throat as soon as look at him.

Thundercracker puts on his best earnest expression. “Hook, can you—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!”

Hook barely glances at him. “If it has anything to do with that thing in your hands, you get the same answer. We have actual work to do, Thundercracker.”

“Why is everyone so mean to this adorable little puppy? _Look_ at him. His leg’s broken. I can’t let him go around with a broken leg!”

Hook—sensing, perhaps, that Thundercracker won’t leave his medbay without a fight—sighs, hands his welder to Scavenger, and comes over. Thundercracker displays the turbofox at its cutest and most pitiful. Hook prods it to be sure it’s still in stasis, then pries its mouth open to display diamond teeth in a tungsten carbide jaw. Thick neck cables flex. “Do you know the bite force of these jaws? I’ll give you a hint. Enough to crumple your nice sturdy armor like foil. Which it _will_ when it rips open your lines to drink your fuel. A turbofox is not a pet.”

“But he is, though. He’s all round and soft! He’s from the towers, see?”

“I don’t care if he’s from Luna-1! If you want the thing fixed, do it yourself.”

“Where am I supposed to get a spare femoral strut?”

Hook squints. “If I give you one, will you leave?”

Thundercracker nods vigorously. Hook plucks a spare strut from the leftovers of fixing Thrust’s arm and holds it out. Thundercracker takes it.

“Now get out of my medbay,” Hook says.

“Okay, but how do I—”

Hook closes the door in his face.

 

Fortunately, Skywarp and Thundercracker have fixed Starscream enough times to have a rudimentary grasp of medicine. Unfortunately, strut replacement is a bit beyond their wheelhouse, but if they want the turbofox repaired there’s no other choice. Skywarp pops himself into the medbay while Hook’s distracted and steals a short-acting pain inhibitor chip. At least there’s that: they don’t have to worry the turbofox will come online in the middle of things, all teeth and cornered-mechanimal violence. When they plug the chip in, it seems to work about as well as it would for a person.

Between them, Skywarp and Thundercracker cap and splice cracked lines. They pick shrapnel from the turbofox’s belly, strip the broken strut, and replace it. The leg takes shape: a mess of parts becomes a spindly digitigrade limb. It’s not the prettiest work and it’ll be a while before the welds integrate, but at least the thing’s no longer maimed. The turbofox never stirs.

They rig up a little berth for it at the foot of Thundercracker’s own: an empty engex crate lined with old padding. Thundercracker settles the turbofox there. If not for the faint whir of its ventilation systems, it could be offline. Thundercracker takes a moment to peer at its teeth for himself. They’re as sharp as they looked in the medbay, but…

It’ll be fine. It’ll be _fine_ , right? He wipes the greasy film of oil and spilled energon from his hands. He holds out the rag to Skywarp, but Skywarp doesn’t take it. His attention is on the turbofox. He prods its ear with a dirty finger. The ear twitches. “What’ll you name him?”

Thundercracker shrugs. “What would you name him?”

“Aftchomper. No, Face-Eater! No, wait, _Obliterator_. Except there’s an artillery gunner named Obliterator on third shift, and he’s a total rust-licker, so maybe not.”

“I’m not calling a frilly towers turbofox _Obliterator_.”

Skywarp makes a face. “If you want a _really_ dumb name, you could call it _Thundercracker Junior_ —ow, hey!”

Thundercracker slaps Skywarp in the back of the head once more for good measure. As bad as Skywarp’s suggestions are, they’re at least suggestions. Thundercracker can’t come up with much. He’s never named anything before, not even nicknames. _Screamer_ was all Skywarp. _‘Warp_ is... Well, it’s so obvious it doesn’t count. He studies the turbofox’s odd color scheme.

“Greenie?”

“Boring,” Skywarp says. “Buster?”

“He doesn’t seem much like a Buster to me.” Thundercracker snaps his fingers. “Oh! Pistachio.”

“Huh?”

“Because he’s green and he has a little moustache. See?” Thundercracker points out the square markings on the end of its muzzle. “ _‘Stache_ , get it?”

Skywarp pulls a face. “You’re so lame. What are you, an Autobot? You could’ve picked something cool like _Sunkiller_ , but no. _Pistachio_.”

“I think it suits him.”

“You _would._ ”

The turbofox seems so small. Thundercracker frowns, troubled. He half wants to tuck it back into his cockpit for safekeeping, but what if he’s wrong and it’s not a friendly pet? What if Pistachio wakes up too feral to keep? Would it have been mercy to put a bullet between its optics? Can a thing made to sprint over the endless horizon be happy in the _Nemesis’_ mazelike guts _?_

Can it be happy here?

He inspects the bare metal of Pistachio’s new limb and the many scrapes and dents on his plating besides. The damage is new. Other than those scrapes Pistachio is oddly pristine, all clean and shiny. It gives more weight to the _pampered towers pet_ theory. Thundercracker feels better about Pistachio not being feral. He touches the turbofox’s repaired leg. It’s warm to the touch where nanites swarm to fix his clumsy welds.

“You know what,” Thundercracker says, “I think Obliterator down in artillery is green, too. Do you think he has any spare paint?”


End file.
